In my dream there is chattering. There is a table. There is a woman.

In my dream plates are lined up in front of her and as a form of endurance she has to drink a pint of gasoline before each one. I don’t know where this cruel hazing originated, only that it will kill her.

In my dream a teen has a crouching figure molded out of shit, that he drags around in a cart and insists on caressing. We can’t persuade him to give it up.

In my dream I trudge through downtown.

In my dream there is a ukulele shaped like a dulcimer with a bolt-on neck. I regret having opened its box as the evening draws on. The other people go.

In my dream the sky is filled with black coal dust that boils across the horizon while smaller clouds detonate in sequence.

In my dream: painted black signs that I always return to.

In my dream the 3-D comic sits on the table, complete with flattened glasses and instructions.

Here’s a picture of me in a university washroom as part of a performance festival in Eindhoven, Netherlands in 1999. Along with the bunny costume, I had a walkman with two headsets and would dance with people while we both wore the headsets at various places on the campus.

In my dream the yard is full of guarded talk.